


Pieces of Martyr

by Moonrose91



Series: The Story of Maxwell Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moonrose91
Summary: A letter is sent, conversations are had, and the scenes that could not be in Martyr make an appearance.





	1. A Letter to Bell Glen (Rating: G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell's letter to Fortunata and some of Bell Glen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the first of the deleted scenes and alternate points of view. The letter Maxwell wrote to Fortunata.
> 
> Set during [Chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5112605/chapters/11997932), roughly.
> 
> These will not always in chronological order, so I'll try to post what Chapter they are related to.
> 
> Right now I have a rough timeline [here](http://moonrose91.tumblr.com/post/152745990747/martyr-timeline), but it will be edited. This is super rough and a basic timeline. When I go in to edit in proper travel times, it'll push the timeline a little deeper. (A good rule of thumb is five days of travel are two days of rest. These are to keep the horses healthy, since they actually do occasionally lay down to sleep, and to help keep everything up, check on saddles, and do prevention of snapping saddle girths, etc. However, well-trained horses that are _bred_ for it, such as the Fereldan Forder, will likely be alright with one full day of rest if the need to push is necessary, and they will also likely rest at the camp.)

* * *

_Dear Fortunata,_

_Truly, writing me that quickly, before the news of the Conclave exploding even reached the closest settlement to Haven feels like it was a slight overreaction. Please reassure our parents that I am, in fact, among the living and yes, the rumors are true, they are lauding me as their Herald of Andraste._

_As you can imagine, I am as pleased with that as our friend is with Templars. Or slavers. Or any mention of the Circles._

_By the Fade, does that man have any enjoyment left in his life?_

_Ah well. I have met someone here who has some friends that might be able to help us with some difficulties we’ve been having. I will try to write to you more about it, though I fear it might have to wait till we see each other once more._

_While I have so many questions to ask, they would be unfair to ask, as I am going to request you do one thing for me._

_Don’t write back. Everyone there relies on you hiding. Do not hesitate to write once you need to. There are Fade Rifts spitting out demons everywhere. Make sure everyone is paired with a mage that knows what to do._

_I hope Laurelle, Christine, Araminta, Hector, Dane, Nedis, Safira, Velle, and Katelynn have accepted Talan. If not, I am sure that you will set them straight. You always were good at that._

_If Renrik has tried to change the price on us again, just poison him a little, enough to make him ill. He’s not Bell Glen’s only source of income and provision._

_If he pushes after that, get Madal involved. She’ll set him straight._

_I know you’ll help everyone take care of home, but don’t overwork yourself. I asked Frederick to keep an eye on you, just in case._

_I would apologize, but you need someone to look after you when I’m not around to do it._

_Be safe and keep safe, remember to ring the bells, and don’t get lost._

_Maxwell_

“Will Enchanter Trevelyan be joining us soon?” Frederick questioned as she turned her signet ring over in her palm.

It had come with the letter and, while she would rather have her big brother back, she was glad to have it back before their father noticed it was gone.

“What makes you think he’s alive?” she responded as she looked over at the Tranquil, folding up the letter without looking down at it.

The Chantry sun on Frederick’s forehead looked as if it was newly burned onto his pale white forehead instead of being twelve years old. His pale brown hair did little to hide it and, in fact, some bangs fell around it, almost as if framing it. “You screamed and cried and threw the letter across the room when you learned of your uncle’s death a week ago. You were not as close to him as you are to Enchanter Trevelyan. As such, you would have reacted either more strongly or just dropped the letter. You also didn’t look down as you folded the letter,” he recited.

Fortunata stared and then snorted with a small smile.

Trust the Tranquil to always look at something logically. “You’re right. In regards to your question, he won’t be returning home for a while. He survived the explosion at the Conclave, and he’s needed in the aftermath,” Fortunata answered softly and Frederick nodded once at that.

“Then we shall continue as we are. Renrik is attempting to short-change us once more,” Frederick responded.

Fortunata made a quiet sound at that and, carefully, slammed her head against the desk. "Lady Trevelyan, self-injury will not help," he remarked.

"I know," she agreed quietly as she stood up.

She sighed and then left Maxwell's house, though officially it was named the mayor's house, Frederick at her left shoulder. She looked around, taking a quick note of who was where, smiling slightly when she saw all the children playing. She _finally_ spied Renrik, on the other side of the square, where the pale white Dwarf was trying to argue with Laurel, another Tranquil. With a quiet sigh and a quiet reciting of her mother's personal motto, in Antivian of course, she began to walk toward him.

Talen laughed as he ran across Fortunata’s path, forcing her to stop, though she was hardly upset. The dark grey-skinned Qunari child of roughly ten years had small nubs of horns starting to show, hair as white as her own in a long braid down his back. He was followed quickly by Laurelle, a little Human apprentice mage of twelve, black hair pulled back in a puff bun, with cool dark brown skin. Dane, a small Elf apprentice with warm golden-brown skin, black hair in cute curls around his pointed ears followed on her heels, the only three in close enough age range to be playing at this time.

She paused to watch them, Frederick shifting to keep in her peripheral as she did so. Her smile grew a little as she watched the pair tackle into Tallan. He fell back with a laugh, all three falling to the ground, giggles surrounding them.

Fortunata smiled at them and began to walk past. “Do not break bones. Anders is busy enough,” Fortunata called as she walked past them.

“Yes _Mother_ ,” Dane, Laurelle, and Talan called in one voice, though Talan exchanged 'mother' with 'Tama'.

Fortunata didn’t roll her eyes, just gave a soft sigh as she walked away from them, a couple of the Tal-Vashoth snorting at the use of Tama. One was Aban, who had curling horns that always reminded Fortunata of Halla and the other had curling horns like a ram, though one was broken in half. They were too new for Fortunata to know their name, though both had the same dark grey skintone.

“Renrik,” Fortunata greeted as she drew closer, a Court approved smile on her face.

Mother would be so proud.

Laurel immediately stepped back to settle at Fortunata’s right side, her skin a pale brown, hair a deep auburn in a style that hid her pointed ears. Her own Tranquil brand looked just as freshly burned into her forehead as Frederick’s and Fortunata hated that symbol.

“Let’s talk about your _terms_ over lunch. Bring Madal, please,” Fortunata continued and her smile turned honest when Renrik went paler than he already was.

Her mother had taught her well, after all.

There was a time for poisons and a time for bringing out the dagger to slid between the ribs after all.

This was the time for the dagger.


	2. Cole and Maxwell (Rating: T, to be on the safe side)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do take requests for this, such as things you would like to see. A lot of Maxwell’s conversations with people were cut before I finished them.
> 
> This one-shot is entirely Maxwell and Cole, and my fiddling with Cole’s ability. I know why, in game, they had Cole unable to see through the anchor, from the designer’s perspective. In the fanfiction, yeah, no. I have a lot of feels regarding Cole and I _still have no idea_ what Maxwell will do in ‘Subjected to his Will’. (Overall he’s _very_ horrified and sick over the fact he’s having to ‘make a decision _for_ someone’, which isn’t helping.)

* * *

 

Maxwell sighed as he leaned over the War Table, pretending he hadn't seen that one of the vases of Embriums that Cole had put in Maxwell's room had replaced the Tranquil skull on top of the books.

Cole had filled his room last night with all the Embrium that could be spared, which was probably why Maxwell had a full night’s rest, thank the Fade. Once he had woken up, however, he had noticed that some of the vases had been moved to places where he was most stressed, such as the War Room. “Why move the vases?” Maxwell asked when he felt a presence at his side.

“They help you. And I can't take any more. I helped show them new ones to find. They're all over. You sent people to gather them,” Cole answered as he shifted to sit on the War Table, pointing to the Hinterlands.

“It is a useful flower, and that's why it filled half of the Circle's garden,” Maxwell answered as he reached for the stack of information Josephine had given him about the nobles he would need to earn favor with.

He ignored the faint green light on his palm as he did so.

He didn't twitch when he felt Cole's head rest against his shoulder. “You are tempted to bring me with you, to Crestwood. You're not sure if I'll be okay there. You always worry. Fortune laughs as she says it, smile bright, eyes wide, optimistic, gentle, compassionate. You didn't want to tell her, but you did as well. She never treated you like you were fragile. Eased, soothed. Still hurting, but better. You sent her a letter, you're still not sure if she got it. She's scared, worried. You should have come back after the sky was healed, you should be there now,” he wandered and Maxwell looked over at him.

“Your hurt touches hers. Fingers walk familiar paths, words follow. The Spirit Bearer teaches her songs he remembers from his youth, barely there, mostly music, he burns, anger bright, but soothed, salving, hurting. He is happy to help, to patch up. Blames himself, hates himself. It is a very complex web of hurt, each stretching to touch another. Village. Apostate Village. Fortune calls is Bell Glen, for the bell traps she's laid and the Crystal Grace they found. Poisoned bodies make potent poisons. She's not merciful to slavers. Good,” he continued quietly and swung his feet a little.

“Sera's going to call you Creepy again,” Maxwell said quietly.

“She doesn’t understand me. I am too much. She’ll get better, no, that’s wrong. She’ll be able to accept, process, wrap thoughts around, when she’s able to adjust. Too much all at once, wrong, wrong, wrong, everything needs to go back, just learned it, why can’t it stay the same? Jennies make sense. Big guy hurts little guy, we hurt back. _That_ makes sense,” Cole recited and Maxwell let out a soft huff as he reached over to gently tug at Cole’s hat.

Cole sat up and Maxwell gave him a gentle smile. “I would like to come, to Crestwood. You are taking Solas. I like Solas. He will help, if it gets too much. You will too,” he said and went back to swinging his legs.

“Alright, I’ll take you to Crestwood,” Maxwell responded and looked back down at the map.

Cole began to hum and it was a tune Maxwell was vaguely familiar with. When Cole began to sing in Antivian, Maxwell immediately recognized it as an old lullaby his mother had sung to him.

He hummed along quietly as he carefully finished up what work he could.


	3. The Slavery Conversation (Rating: Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Slavery Conversation, as mentioned in [Chapter 13](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5112605/chapters/19407445#main)
> 
> **Warnings**  
>  \- Talk of Slavery  
> \- Vague allusion to rape (and other abuses, though all vague)

* * *

 Maxwell limped slowly up the steps to the second level of the library, deeply desiring to speak with Dorian.

He found the man…charming. He was intelligent and he studied magic as if he could not breathe without it.

There was a part of Maxwell, a long lost, younger Maxwell, who was ignorant and foolish, shielded by his name and place in the Circle, that had wanted nothing more than to learn. He was accepting of the Chantry and the Maker, of Andraste, but didn’t really believe in any of it.

That long lost part of Maxwell was drawn to Dorian like the Fade to a Mage. He had started to consider his own theories, wonder if the libraries held tomes that were similar to those saved at Ostwick, and he had his journal. It would be nice, and maybe they could speak of Tevinter, something Maxwell had been avoiding since he had exhausted all other topics except slavery.

Dorian said he wished for reform though, that Tevinter could be better.

The only way to make Tevinter _better_ , however, was if it was rebuilt from the foundations to the steeples. And the foundations were built on slavery.

The idea of broaching the subject made Maxwell’s stomach twist and part of him, a very large part of him, wanted to remain ignorant.

The rest of him, however, the part that swore to always dig out his own ignorance and never be willfully blind again, refused to back down. Even in the wake of that fear, and knowing that if this twisted around, bit him like the snake that graced Tevinter banners (or, well, the dragon, he gathered), it was going to…Maxwell _liked_ Dorian.

In ways he hadn’t _liked_ someone, without a great deal of terror at least, since Frederick. Being safe for a while, even when surrounded by stone and called Herald of Andraste, made it difficult to smother.

Maxwell evened his footsteps through sheer willpower and he stepped up. Dorian was in what Maxwell called Dorian’s nook, reading one of the few books they had managed to save in Haven, but they weren’t quite there just yet.

Maxwell had a feeling Josephine was calling in favors. He would have to thank her later. “Dorian,” Maxwell greeted.

“Maxwell, more questions?” Dorian responded with a small smile as he faced Maxwell.

“I’m giving everyone else a break, before they grow tired of my voice,” Maxwell responded and he heard a soft sound below, likely Solas muttering under his breath regarding that.

“Oh, I can’t imagine that,” Dorian said with a smirk.

Maxwell’s felt his face heat up and he tilted his head slightly. “Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?” Dorian asked and Maxwell nodded.

He considered and almost went for his journal before he realized he _couldn’t_. “When we were last talking about Tevinter, we weren’t able to finish our conversation,” Maxwell said.

“Yes, having an Archdemon come swooping down on our heads and crush Haven does put a damper on the conversation,” Dorian responded, but there is something off in his tone.

“Ask away,” he said with an idle wave of his hand.

Maxwell hesitated and then focused on Dorian. “Tevinter is the center of the slave trade,” Maxwell said softly and Dorian’s face went still.

“Yes, it’s true,” he responded and Maxwell felt his stomach twist further.

Down the library, Maxwell thought he saw Grand Enchanter Fiona still.

“Did you have slaves?” Maxwell asked.

“No, not me personally, no, but my family does and treats them well,” Dorian responded and Maxwell almost felt like he was slapped in the face.

“Honestly, I never thought much about it, until I came to the South. Back home it is what it is. I never really noticed. Slaves were just…everywhere and it is never really questioned. I don’t think many slaves question it either,” he continued and Maxwell could barely breathe.

Grand Enchanter Fiona stalked away from Dorian, straight into another, darker, nook, but Maxwell barely noticed. “You don’t _question it_?”

The question is ripped out of him, and oh, he’s angry. Maxwell doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before, omitting that time he got between one of the Templars and a barely of age apprentice.

“In the South, you have alienages, slums both Human _and_ Elven. They have no way _out_. Back home, a poor man can sell himself and gain a position of respect, comfort, and even support a family. Some slaves are treated poorly, it is true, but do you honestly think that inescapable poverty is better?” Dorian retorted and Maxwell felt himself shaking.

His shoulders hurt from where he is forcing them back. “ _Treated poorly_?” Maxwell said and his voice is strangled.

He can’t say anymore, because all he feels is a burning rage, this…these words. A man who says he wants to change the Imperium, but excuses the largest thing he will need to change. The very foundations of the Imperium need to be redone, without the blood of slaves. It won’t wash it away, nothing ever could, but it could be a beginning to making it better.

“Abuse heaped upon those without power by those with power isn’t limited to Tevinter, my friend,” Dorian responded and Maxwell can barely breathe.

He doesn’t know if it is because of the squeezing of his lungs, his anger, or the way he wants to _scream_. He can’t make the words come out, cannot shake Dorian to _make him understand_.

“It is true, I don’t know what it is like to be a slave. I hadn’t ever thought about it until I saw how different it was down here. But I suspect _you_ don’t either, and you should not believe every tale of Tevinter excess is the norm,” Dorian continued.

“You’re right. I don’t. But since _you_ don’t know, then don’t _speak as if you do_ until you have lost your _ignorance_ ,” Maxwell snapped and turned on his heel as he walked away, straight for the rookery.

He was up the stairs, far too fast, and he could hear someone following him. He truly hoped it wasn’t Dorian, he may do something he would regret.

Like hit the other mage with a Lightning Bolt.

Leliana pointed him to a door and Maxwell stepped out, heading straight for the far corner of the balcony, leaning against it as he breathed. No one looked up for him, no one searched for him, too busy clearing and cleaning, rebuilding.

He breathed the cold air, and he shivered as he leaned his forehead down to press against his wrists, crossed over the cold stone. He shivered and breathed. He breathed, even as he felt Cole’s presence appear at his side.

Maxwell exhaled shakily and slowly looked up and over at Cole. “You lied, and it hurt. It pulled me up here. All that hurt. It hurts and digs, a knife to the heart that would be kinder if it was literal,” he said quietly and Maxwell exhaled shakily.

He slowly stood up to look at Cole. “You sometimes wanted the illusion to stay. That it was nice, that it was wanted. It shattered within a beat of a heart. You hate it and it hurts, and it festers, but I can’t shake it loose,” Cole said quietly and he looks upset.

Maxwell gave him a weak smile and slowly shifted until his back was against the stone wall and sunk down to sit on the stone floor, staring at the sky.

“He throws it into your face, and you cannot speak. They are your cuts to bare when you desire, not to make him see. He needs to open his own eyes. He doesn’t understand,” Cole said quietly as he settled next to Maxwell.

“He needs to. He wishes to reform his homeland. He cannot do that if he does not understand,” Maxwell whispered.

He’s not surprised when Cole lays his head on Maxwell’s shoulder, the hat’s brim pushing against Maxwell’s neck.

He doesn’t shake Cole off, just focuses on breathing as Cole hummed as he fidgeted with his fingers, if the slight movements were anything to go off of.

They stayed there until the night began to steal across the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just...that growth, I promise, will happen to Dorian, _without_ Maxwell having to drag out his personal experiences. Those happen after Dorian confronts why being confronted with slavery makes him uncomfortable.


	4. Cut Conversation: Solas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Vague allusions to Maxwell's PTSD and trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I honestly feel bad about these getting cut, I am going to be honest with you all over my reasonings for them being cut.
> 
> 1) I just wanted to get to Maxwell being Inquisitor and start with the Running Ragged of Maxwell
> 
> 2) It was not working
> 
> and
> 
> 3) I wanted them to be different enough to be engaging and not just a repeat of what you play, much like the first two chapters of Martyr.

Maxwell woke with a small twitch of his left fingers. He couldn’t hear anything except the small movements that meant there was life, but early morning life in Skyhold. He exhaled quietly as he began to slowly move, only to still when he saw Solas sitting at his bedside. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he greeted.

“I thought we were past the worry,” Maxwell responded quietly.

“We were, right up until you collapsed so hard and fast that you almost hit the ground. We’ve set up a, subtle, rotation. Josephine’s insistence, though an understandable one,” Solas answered and Maxwell huffed.

“Yes, that comes from being a Symbol instead of a person,” Maxwell muttered and then groaned quietly at the fact he let that slip.

Solas gave a quiet hum at that, and Maxwell felt…off.

Odd.

He shifted slightly in the bed and made sure he was half-sitting up. He frowned slightly, still feeling off, but he decided to settle that on being, well, here.

In this place.

He frowned again.

That didn’t feel right.

“We were discussing matters of the Fade, were we not?” Solas asked and Maxwell looked over at him.

“Yes. I believe we were comparing knowledge,” Maxwell agreed quietly.

“We were,” Solas agreed and then he seemed to glance _past_ Maxwell before he focused on him.

“I think I even finally managed to almost get you talking about yourself, instead of just your journeys,” Maxwell added with a tiny grin and Solas returned it, briefly.

“You did. Perhaps we could speak somewhere else, somewhere more interesting, if you’re up for it,” Solas said and Maxwell considered before he nodded, slowly standing up.

* * *

The snow fell around them as Maxwell walked the well-known path of Haven, even if it was toward the Chantry, not someplace Maxwell particularly felt like he wanted to go. He still felt like there was something strange, something… _off_ with the entire situation and he focused on Solas. “It was a familiar feeling, an echo of what had already passed,” Solas said suddenly as they stood in the dungeon of Haven’s Chantry.

“Oh?” Maxwell asked as he stood next to Solas.

“Yes. I sat beside you, while you slept, studying the anchor, when you were first brought to Haven,” Solas said quietly and Maxwell nodded.

“Varric said something about that. I’ve been meaning to thank you in a better situation for that,” Maxwell said quietly.

Solas shifted slightly and then shook his head. “No need to thank me…Enchanter Trevelyan. You were a mystery, still are. I have never been able to leave a mystery unsolved,” he said, though he hesitated on the name, as if unsure of what to call Maxwell.

For a moment, Maxwell could have sworn that the room darkened before it lightened again, though it had definitely had grown a little colder. “You can call me Maxwell, or Ser Trevelyan if you would prefer. I’m not an Enchanter anymore,” Maxwell offered and Solas shifted slightly.

“Of course, Ser Trevelyan. I was--I had searched everywhere, run every test I could think of, on the Mark. Any Spirit I could have asked for help had fled, though still I scoured the Fade for answers, and found nothing,” Solas continued and he turned to face Maxwell.

“Is this really about you?” Maxwell asked idly and Solas gave a small shift of his head.

“Of course. Cassandra suspected duplicity, and threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I did not produce results,” he said and Maxwell twitched.

This time he thought he saw the flames jump, as if feeding off of the rage that began to simmer under his heart.

“I will not allow that to happen,” Maxwell said, in a tone of voice he had not used for _years_.

 _I promise_.

A promise without a promise, a word of warning for those who would dare to tread too close to forcing him to break it.

Solas startled slightly and then shook his head a little. “At the time, there was little you could have done to prevent it. You were unconscious, and a prisoner,” Solas said quietly as he began to turn, exit the Chantry.

Maxwell happily followed him.

“You were never going to wake up,” Solas said as they stepped out into the sunlight, though it seemed dimmer than when they had entered the Chantry.

“How could you? A mortal sent physically into the Fade? I was…frustrated,” Solas said and then stopped to turn back to Maxwell.

“Frightened,” he admitted quietly.

“It did not help that those I could have asked for help were driven to hide from the Breach, lest it turn them into something they were not,” he said and paused.

“I had no faith in Cassandra, nor she in me,” Solas said.

Maxwell did not respond how he wished to, which was that to put faith in Cassandra was a folly. He had put faith in her, only to realize she never should have had it in the first place. Promising a better tomorrow, while trying to ensure that the past _was_ the tomorrow.

“I was ready to flee,” he admitted quietly.

Maxwell vaguely wondered how hard this was for Solas to admit. He was a proud Elf, not ashamed of who he was or his own power. “Where would you have gone?” Maxwell asked softly.

“Somewhere far away, where I could hide and research a way to repair the Breach before it reached me,” Solas answered with a small smile and then gave the tiniest shrug.

“I never said it was a good plan,” he said and began to walk away.

“True. You should probably work on that,” Maxwell answered as he half followed after Solas.

What was it about Haven that felt so _wrong_?

Well, despite the lack of people.

“Most likely I should,” Solas agreed quietly and there was something…other under that.

Something more.

“I told myself, one last attempt to seal the Rifts and found I couldn’t. I had tried and failed, for no ordinary magic would affect them,” he continued and Maxwell hung back slightly, watching Solas.

Solas who seemed very fixated on the swirling green of the Breach in the sky which…made little sense. Maxwell was even more sure something was wrong with this.

“I had resigned myself to fleeing as I watched the Rifts expand and grow,” Solas said and then he turned to Maxwell.

“And then you… _it seems you are the key to our salvation_ ,” he echoed and Maxwell, for a brief moment, thought he saw a flash of memory.

Oh… _oh_.

He was in the _Fade_.

He saw the shift at the edge of his vision, but it didn’t change, and he glanced at Solas. A Dreamer then, or so it would seem.

Maxwell may walk his own dreams, but his Spirit friends shaped them.

“You sealed it with a gesture and…and right then I felt the whole world change,” Solas said quietly and Maxwell stared.

“It was truly that impressive? I merely channeled the Mark through me. I _hold_ the key, not the key _itself_ ,” Maxwell responded quietly, the Fade Haven growing a tad colder, and Solas gave a small shake of his head.

“You had _walked in the Fade_!” Solas said and something echoed in the back of his voice, something that Maxwell couldn’t place.

“Even I who have explored more of the Fade than anyone alive, but even I can only visit it in dreams! But you…” he trailed off briefly before he continued on, “You might have been able to visit me _here_ , while awake!”

Maxwell titled his head slightly and gave a nod. “Theoretically, yes, but I think I, at times, prefer to keep it to dreams. It makes it somewhat easier, at least on the Spirits, I think,” he answered as he gave Solas a smile.

Solas blinked and then he shook his head with a small chuckle. With the admittance of being in the Fade, the half-lingering presence of Hope became far more potent and he was suddenly draped in gossamer touch.

“Hello Hope,” Maxwell greeted quietly as Solas glanced at her.

A swirl of gold across his eyes, but still Haven stood around them, even as Maxwell started to pick up the other Spirits, smaller wisps that curled. Solas held the image of Haven here, but the spirits that usually liked to follow Maxwell from place to place, or merely drew him to where they lived, were starting to let themselves be known.

“I had not known you had your own friends here in the Fade,” Solas said and Maxwell smiled.

“They are good friends,” Maxwell said and he felt a slight shift under his feet, as if something changed slightly.

“I would be glad to continue this conversation, later, if you would like,” Solas said and Maxwell considered before he nodded a little.

“Probably better to have it when we are both awake,” Maxwell said and Solas gave a nod before he stepped away.

“Yes, probably best if we wait,” Solas answered and then Haven began to fade away, just as Solas just…walked into the blacksmith’s old house.

“Do you know him?” Maxwell asked as a garden began to fill the area around them, the green of the sky that was the Fade tinged with the blue, along with sunset colors, he knew from the Waking.

“Yes,” Hope said.

“Is he always that dramatic?” Maxwell asked and Hope laughed.

“Yes,” she agreed and Maxwell shook his head slightly, even as a Spirit of Faith settled into a form much like Fortunata’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas is now confirmed to be The Most Horrible At Long Term Planning Always, since his plan if you ask ‘where did you plan to go?’ was to run off and study the Breach until he could figure out how to fix it, and it is like, “My dude, my Elf, my lone wolf, you need to start thinking of consequences.” He’s Bad at this. (Someone hit him really hard upside the head.)


	5. Cut Conversation: Vivienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply
> 
> Please read the Beginning Notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flat Out Stated, Graphic, Child Death (technically mention, but half mini-flashback)
> 
> Death by Burning (mention in the same mini-flashback)

Maxwell barely felt any better, though he was cleared to walk a bit further than just around the surgeon’s encampment right in front of his cell.

Room.

Room not cell.

He gave himself a small shrug and then began to make his way up the dirt ramp, for a lack of a better descriptor. The walk, while slowly sloping, was exhausting and Maxwell was regretting every step. He paused and then noticed that Vivienne was standing there.

He paused and then remembered that she was one of the ones that sat with him, during that subtle rotation. He hesitated and then sighed, realizing that he had misjudged her somewhat.

Flinch from hearing _Last of the Loyal Mages_ or not, that had been unfair of him. He walked over to her and gave a small nod of his head.

“Madame Vivienne,” he greeted and was surprised when she immediately turned to him.

“Maker, you’re a _mess_! Are you alright, my dear? Any new pains? You look _dreadful_ ,” Vivienne asked and Maxwell almost jumped back.

He barely stopped himself in time.

“I’ll be fine, I promise Madame Vivienne,” Maxwell responded softly and she gave a small smile.

Almost approving.

“It is good to see you bearing it well. The people will take their cue from your composure. Let’s keep up appearances,” Vivienne responded.

Oh, the Game! Well, it seemed putting on a metaphorical mask during his time at the Circle was going to do wonders.

Something good came of it after all.

“You handled this crisis competently, saving as many lives as you did,” she praised gently and then shifted her weight slightly.

Maxwell, for a moment, couldn’t breathe. There was a wall behind Vivienne, but it wasn’t a stone wall of Skyhold, instead a blood splattered one at Ostwick. There was an apprentice stabbed through, stuck to the wall, the Templar roasted alive in his armor.

The smell of blood curling through his nose, settling at the back of his throat, almost enough to make him gag.

“ _But_ , the enemy struck a serious blow against the Inquisition. We must recognize that. _You_ must,” she continued, voice harder, eyes as well.

Lady of Iron suited her well, but it is an idle thought, one that barely registers when all he can see are the unjustly killed.

“Not enough. I failed them,” Maxwell said quietly and he’s not sure where he is talking about.

The Circle, Haven.

Both.

Most likely both. Bodies pilled around him and blood soaking into his boots.

“You didn’t _fail them_ , my dear,” Vivienne argued quietly and Maxwell looked over at her.

He could barely breathe, and each breath was almost a struggle.

“The men and women who fought for you gave their lives to a great cause and they fought to the end. They fought to the end because you inspired them, stood there against the bulwark of Corypheus’s forces, called for them to try and take your head, and they fell before you for it,” she said and stood up a little straighter.

Maxwell’s stomach twisted at that, because that was what a Symbol was. He had to be more and when he stepped forward, they would follow, to bask in what they thought was the Maker’s light.

To follow the one touched by Blessed Andraste.

“The rest _still fight_ and you _will_ fail them if you give up now,” Vivienne said quietly and Maxwell blinked as he glanced down slightly.

He inhaled and then exhaled sharply.

He could still smell blood that wasn’t really there, and it seemed to practically be caked onto him, despite being perfectly clean, physically.

“Our enemy _will_ advance, and we cannot not just stand and wait for them,” she said.

“We must stride out to meet them,” Maxwell finished quietly and he looked at her, slowly standing up straighter.

Vivienne gave a nod and he exhaled. “I…came over here for a reason, First Enchanter Vivienne,” he said softly and she raised an eyebrow.

“I did so prefer Madame Vivienne,” she remarked.

“Madame Vivienne, I…I came to apologize. I am afraid I did not think kindly of you, and may have let my…I misjudged you. I faulted you for something you were not part of. It was unkind of me, and I wish to apologize for how I acted on it,” he said, very lowly, careful of how to speak around people.

For all he wanted to apologize in a more grand fashion, it would not end well, not with what he needed to project.

Vivienne looked at him and gave a nod. “I accept, my dear. Besides, you, in many ways, accepted it and you moved forward. You learned and you adapted. All good qualities, my dear, especially in one who became an Enchanter so young. I should have realized…she spoke fondly of you, in her letters to me. She was so _proud_ ,” Vivienne responded and Maxwell stilled, breathe catching again.

“Thank you,” he said softly and she gave a nod.

“Now, run off, dear. You have others to stand before and prove you are composed. You cannot let them see you falter, and you’ve already made them nervous,” Vivienne said.

Maxwell gave a nod and then stepped back. “If there is anything you need to make your stay better, Madame Vivienne,” he said.

“I shall be sure to make the proper request, Herald,” Vivienne responded and Maxwell nodded before he turned to find a place to sit down without it looking like he needed to sit down.

He still was having difficulty breathing and his boots felt wet, even though he had made sure not to walk through any puddles.


	6. Cut Conversation: Sera

“Sera?” Maxwell called as he approached the pacing Elf.

She turned on him suddenly. “You remember that war we were supposed to be stopping? You know the ones with the little baddies that I was supposed to stick with my little arrows? That’s not a _firgging Archdemon_ is it?” she demanded loudly and Maxwell tried not to snort.

“Andraste, what did I step in?” she mumbled, barely understood.

“I will admit that the Archdemon, and Coryphaeus, was a surprise. Not sure which one I am more surprised about,” Maxwell agreed.

“That wasn’t a surprise!” Sera shouted with a wide waving of her arms. “A surprise, ‘oh, I stepped into dog shite’! _No one_ says 'oh, a Magister god-monster, oh, I'm so surprised!'”

She shifted slightly and shook her head slightly. “Impossible _things_ aren’t surprises,” she argued and Maxwell blinked, something clicking.

Oh.

She was being _overwhelmed_.

“Sera, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, stepping forward slightly and she jumped a little.

“It’s got to be nonsense, right?” she asked and her fingers were twitching and jumping.

Maxwell didn’t try to stop her, knowing that the fidgeting would help. Maybe…he would look into sensory things later, when he knew her better.

“Because, because if it _isn’t_ nonsense, then we’re screwed big time, right? Because the Coryephthing is a Magister right? And if he’s a Magister, and he’s some monster-god thing, then he was one of the ones who crapped in the Golden City, which means that the Golden City is a real thing. The throne of the Maker? A real thing! And a throne needs a butt, which means that the Maker is a _real thing_ ,” she explained and her voice was picking up speed.

“Fairytales about the start _and_ end of the world? _Real things_! It is too much, isn’t it?” she responded, and Maxwell reached out, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

She startled slightly and he gave her a gentle smile. “Sera, breathe,” he said and she cut him off.

“If I’m _talkin’_ I’m _breathing_ , don’t give me that stupid shite!” she snapped, pulling away and Maxwell let her go, because obviously touch wasn’t going to help her now.

“Breathe _slower_. Count the arrows in your quiver. Imagine sticking them into Corypheaus’s soft parts. All of the arrows, right through every orifice. Make him ‘say what’,” Maxwell coaxed and she startled before she broke out in a snorting, though slightly hysterical, laughter.

“Say what,” she snickered and Maxwell nodded.

“I’m sure you can manage it. In the meantime, arrows everywhere. I can use a lot of arrows. And whatever you’ve been brewing behind Adan’s apothecary, don’t think I didn’t notice,” he said and she laughed.

“Right, I can do that. I can do that and yell a lot of _no_ at all this nonsense. So we fight, the bad things go away, everyone calms down, and everything goes back to normal! A nice, well-paid, normal,” she said and Maxwell nodded.

Even if it was a lie.

No one was going to calm down, it would never go back to normal, because they could never fit back in their normal. But it would help her calm down and this lie was one he could afford to agree with.

“Sounds like a good plan. I’ll expect you to handle you’re part. _Especially_ the shouting ‘no’ part,” Maxwell said and Sera grinned.

“Oh, I can do that. Easy as shooting an arrow,” she said.

“Good,” Maxwell responded and began to step away.

“Ser Lordybloomers?” Sera asked and Maxwell turned back to focus on her.

“Yes Sera?”

“Nevermind. Forget it,” she responded, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Alright. If you need me to remember, you can find me,” Maxwell responded and then walked off, leaving Sera to pace around a little again.

He couldn’t make her talk about anything, and when she was ready, she would come to him.

It was as simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell kinda goes into ‘parenting mode’ regarding Sera and Cole (both of them being Very Young, especially in comparison to everyone else who is mainly in their 30s to 40s). More so with Sera than Cole, since Cole is a Spirit. And basically starts it with this conversation, more or less. (Also, Sera is Very Autistic and she’s also Very Overwhelmed and lashing out because it is Too Much all at once)


	7. Cut Conversation: The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the only Conversation cut that actually takes place after becoming Inquisitor, because it only works there.
> 
> (A really bad warning in the Author's Notes, but it is the only way I could think to word it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell vaguely alludes to how he got his face scars, which was when distracting a Templar went bad fast.
> 
> Bull has probably put together more than Maxwell will _ever_ be fully be comfortable with.

“Iron Bull, look very carefully at me. What do you first notice?” Maxwell asked as he held up the clothes Bull had thrown at him.

The Iron Bull glanced and gave a grin. “Well,” he offered and Maxwell felt himself glare.

“ _Bull_ ,” he said in a warning tone.

Bull chuckled and then gave a rolling shrug. “The scars, but they’re good scars, signs you’re a fighter, a survivor. Though how you got knife scars like that I don’t know,” Iron Bull said with a slightly narrowed eye.

“Well, I _was_ on my back at the time,” Maxwell remarked, then shook his head slightly, shaking all over.

“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, is there something _missing_ in all these clothes?” Maxwell asked.

The Iron Bull was staring at him and then he glanced over. “Not entirely. Krem needed to find one of Grim’s hooded cloaks. One that won’t make you like a sinister Magister,” Bull said with a sharp grin.

“Appreciate it,” Maxwell said and considered before he shrugged out of his coat.

He could easily change without having to reveal anything and did so quickly. “I thought you were shy,” Bull remarked.

“I didn’t get fully undressed, there was nothing to be shy _about_ ,” Maxwell answered as he adjusted the clothes, making sure to tug the gloves on more firmly, fully hiding the green of the mark.

“Found it Chief!” Krem called as he burst into the tent, holding a simple brown cloak.

“Thank Grim for me please Krem,” Maxwell said as he tugged on the cloak, noting it more or less hid his scarring without making it obvious.

“Course Inquisitor,” Krem responded.

“Perfect! Let’s go have you check on some of your soldiers!” Bull said as he walked out.

Maxwell shook his head slightly and followed Bull out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall, Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian, Josephine, Leliana, and Varric will be arriving when I can get the scenes to behave and write them out beyond vague notes in a doc.


	8. All Souls Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Past Child Death, Past Death, Somewhat Graphic Description of Death, Mourning, Grieving, So Much Past Death,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell Mourns the Fall of his part of the Ostwick Circle (I needed reasonable numbers)
> 
> This chapter is basically 2,000 (plus some) words of Maxwell's quiet grief and I don't know how well I did, but Maxwell just grieves and holds the dead and remembers them and it is really early and I have to get up in 9 hours and I cried.

* * *

 

Maxwell stared at the lake, wondering what All Souls Day was like for those who…followed it, really.

He remembered there being fire on occasion, fire in a bowl, in remembrance of Andraste and placing names of those who had passed and you missed into the bowl to burn as well. He wasn’t sure if that was just his family, or if was familiar but it felt…wrong to do so for those he mourned.

His uncle would have liked it, possibly, but he didn’t entirely _mourn_ his uncle. His uncle had passed and it was almost a relief to hear about it from Fortunata.

He hadn’t been doing well in the end, driven to forgetfulness by Lyrium, wracked with memory loss and pain from the withdrawal, and his own hatred to ‘what the Order had become’.

He at least never learned how far Ostwick had fallen after he had been retired from Knight-Commander at the Ostwick Circle.

He couldn’t burn these names.

He glanced around and then saw where there was some Elfroot. He hummed and began to carefully make strips with the leaves.

Marigold, age 4. Quintis, age 10. Oswald, age 6. Samras, age 7. Riren, age 6. Johan, age 7. The younger Myra, age 8. Aelia, age 5. Leon, age 7. Vena, age 9. Thellen, age 8. The human Pleasance, age 6. Mivera, age 9.

He hummed as he carefully froze those thirteen strands together to make a little flower bulb, not even open.

He then turned to make more strips, these larger, more petal like. There were less, but not by much.

Loreta, age 15. Peter, age 14. Emma, age 13. Henri, age 17. Sam, age 13. Robert, age 15. Alain, age 14. Lyra, age 16, trapped to the wall of the Youngest Apprentices’ Quarters through the stomach by a Templar’s sword, said Templar having been roasted alive in his armor.

Maxwell carefully froze this as well, more like a flower that was halfway open, carefully stretching to fullgrowth.

“Boss, what are you doing?” Bull asked.

“I can’t burn the names. They deserve better,” Maxwell said quietly as he reached out to get another Elfroot which was growing near the first.

This he began to twist around.

The younger Ava, age 18, the first knot, found in the Youngest Apprentices’ Quarters, between the survivors and Templars. Devin, age 19, the second knot, found at the door of the Middle Apprentices’ Quarters, stabbed through the chest. Liane, age 20, the third knot, found in the hallway from Younger to Eldest Apprentices’ Quarters. Roland, age 18, the fourth knot, found in the doorway of the Eldest Apprentices’ Quarters.

“Isn’t that what people do? On All Souls Day?” Sera asked as Maxwell finished freezing the Elfroot leaves into a semblance of a flower.

“Yes. But they _deserve better_ ,” Maxwell responded quietly as he stared at the frozen man-made flowers.

False frozen flowers. Next year, he might create individual, but there wasn’t much he could do on the road.

“But that’s…what you do. You burn the names so…” Sera said and trailed off when Maxwell looked up at her.

“I can’t let them go. They deserve better,” Maxwell said quietly and gently touched the smallest one, the bulb that wasn’t even open.

He then did the same to the one that was partially open and hesitated to touch the last.

They had all been children, even then ones that were technically adults.

He shook his head slightly and carefully stood up, ignoring the slight lightheadedness he now suffered from.

He reached down and carefully picked up the three flowers. “I’ll do better next year,” he said quietly as he carefully carried them over to a spot.

It was shaded by trees, and pleasant. It was far away from the memory of the Circle and he laid them at the roots of a tree. He then sat back down in front of them.

Marigold would have been seven this year. She was always so bright and happy, cheerful with that innocence of childhood still holding onto her. She hadn’t even been in the Circle for four months when she was murdered.

Quintis would have been thirteen this year. He was always scowling, it seemed, not that Maxwell had ever blamed him. He glared and he only smiled, briefly, when he was given a book that was just for him. Angry and quiet, and rage just under the skin.

Oswald would have been nine this year. He was so small, he was barely taller than Marigold. He had always been so quiet and gentle as well. He could have been trusted to tend to his own plot in the Circle garden without supervision, beyond the Templars at least.

Samras would have been ten this year. He was so sharp and mischievous. He had planned more than a few pranks against the Templars, which had him then smiling innocently up at them with wide eyes and a ‘who, me?’ expression.

Riren would have been nine this year. He was quiet, and sweet. He was sneaky as well, his time as a little street thief showing when he snuck up to visit Maxwell, well above the Apprentices’ Quarters. He always had something small to show Maxwell.

Johan would have been ten this year. By the Fade, he was so _scared_. He switched wildly from quiet to loud rage. He was well on his way to Tranquility, considered too dangerous. Too powerful. Some of the scars on Maxwell’s arms had come from him.

The Younger Myra, she would have been eleven this year. She was little like the elder Myra, more outgoing, more willing to take chances. More willing to join Samras on his prank expeditions and come up with ones that had her toeing becoming Tranquil.

Aelia would have been eight this year. She was such a vivacious reader, but she never said a word. She was quiet in a way that meant little and had only been in the Circle the same length of time as Marigold when she was murdered, they had come together in fact.

Leon would have been ten this year. He was such a bright little boy, a small smile on his face for Mages, a neutral face for a Templar. Kindness tempered by fear, he had shown a beginning talent for being a Spirit Healer, and was fascinated with the process.

Vena would have been twelve this year. She spent a great deal of time in the library, running her fingers over books and pages, as if she couldn’t get enough of the texture. She would smile and shuffle a little when asked, rocking from heel to heel when she was stressed.

Thellen would have been eleven this year. He often came to Maxwell in tears, unable to articulate why he was. He was a quiet, soft-hearted child, and always so caring. He had reached, constantly, for affection and was given it in secret, just out of prying Templar eyes, or masked as tears over a skinned knee from tripping.

The Human Pleasance would have been nine this year. She couldn’t read or write when she had come to the Circle three months before she was murdered. She had just learned how to spell her name the day before, her excitement catching throughout the Apprentice Quarters.

Mivera would have been twelve this year. She could sing, and often sang songs that didn’t sound like they came from Ostwick. She never said where she had come from, but she was happy to sing and share, especially with the other Elven Mages, which always made Maxwell suspect her to be Dalish, which made it all so much worse.

Loreta would have been eighteen this year. She was fire and fury, carefully contained and honed into false obedience. The right words at the right time, in another world, she would have ruled the Game. She was in line to become a Knight Enchanter, and she would have used that Spirit Blade to cleave her way free.

Peter would have been seventeen this year. He had never spoken for as long as Maxwell had known him. He was studious and watched the Templars by keeping his eyes on their armored feet. He knew things because he listened and his writing was slightly slanted because he was left-handed.

Emma would have been sixteen this year. She collected shiny things, like a magpie. Sometimes older mages and apprentices slipped her things, and she would have to be held back by another apprentice when the Templars came to take them away from her. Maxwell half-wondered if the small things he had kept for her in his desk drawer were still there in the old Circle.

Henri would have been twenty this year. He was the only apprentice who _knew_ and Maxwell would have done anything to have him never know. He had been so tall, taller than the tallest Templar, a quiet persistence to him that would have seen him safely through his Harrowing. If he was allowed to be a Knight Enchanter, he would have cleaved them all free.

Sam would have been sixteen this year. They had loved to work in the Circle Gardens, but occasionally got a little overzealous in the weeding and would accidentally pull up Elfroot with the weeds. They would be apologetic afterwards and work to plant it back into the ground, blushing to the tips of their pointed ears.

Robert would have been eighteen this year. He had always had an affinity for fire. He often held it in his hands, as if mimicking Andraste with her bowl. He would sometimes stare between his hands and the bowl, as if trying to decipher some ancient mystery.

Alain would have been seventeen this year. He always stitched some, stolen, soft material to the insides of his sleeves, as if he couldn’t bear the touch of the rougher Apprentice Robes. He was soft-spoken and was gleeful to give the history of the Free Marches to anyone who asked.

Lyra would have been nineteen this year. She had always been so _protective_ of her fellow apprentices. She would stand in the way, eyes narrowed and damn the consequences. Her back would have been a lattice work of scars if it weren’t for the Spirit Healers. She never backed down however, not even with a sword through her stomach.

The Younger Ava would have been twenty-one this year. She was two days away from her Harrowing when she was murdered. She was likely to be traded to some Circle in Nevarra after. She had shown some consideration for Necromancy, though it likely would never be taught to her, she would be given the theory at least.

Devin would have been twenty-two this year. He was well on his way to being a Spirit Healer, despite not yet being Harrowed, when he was murdered. He had a quiet manner and a small smile on his face. He would often be the one younger apprentices went to for comfort, when the mages were unavailable.

Liane would have been twenty-three this year. She was considered ‘dangerous’ and a ‘liability’ and her Tranquility was scheduled for a week after she was murdered. She preferred theory to practical, and seemed to favor the Spirit school of magic, which made her all the more frightening to Templars.

Roland would have been twenty-one this year. He was one the Templars should have been afraid of, rage boiling just under his skin. But he was pleasant and smiled _just so_ , and they spoke highly of him. He was about to be Harrowed to start on the path of a Knight Enchanter when he was murdered.

Maxwell stared at the three frozen flowers and buried his face in his hands, realizing this wasn’t even _everyone_.

By the Void, _they counted as just under half_ of the people Maxwell mourned.

There were twenty-one Tranquil who had died, either in the Apprentices’ Quarters, in the middle of their tasks, or on the docks.

Constance, William, Hildegard, David, Aleaume, Hager, Ashalle, Martin, Audres, Laurin, Gallus, Sedehanna, Anna, Pailen, Cristina, Viria, Sheryse, Lalwyn, Fihris, Nelanna, and Cyrven.

He was likely the only one who remembered them, let alone remembered their names.

He remembered all of their names, their faces, their _tasks_.

Constance had been a scribe, tireless noting down research or copying what was done. She had died on the docks.

William had been one of the Apprentices’ Quarters minders. He had been murdered in the Eldest Apprentices’ Quarters.

Hildegard had been one of their lyrium enchanters. She had died on the docks.

David had been one of the stock room keepers. He had been murdered in his stock room.

Aleaume had been one of those who just cleaned around the Circle. He had been murdered in the corridor, in the middle of cleaning.

Hager had been one of the Apprentices’ Quarters minders. He had been murdered just down the hallway from Marigold.

Ashalle had been one of their lyrium enchanters. She had died on the docks.

Martin had been a scribe. He had been murdered in the library, left bleeding all over his work.

Audres had been another of the Apprentices’ Quarters minders. He had been murdered within the Youngest Apprentices’ Quarters.

Laurin had also been one of the Apprentices’ Quarters minders. She had been murdered, a knife in her own hand, just in front of the Middle Apprentices’ Quarters.

Gallus had been another cleaner around the Cirlce. He had been murdered just outside of David’s stock room, looking like he was coming to start on his tasks for the day.

Sedehanna had been a scribe. She was murdered in the Knight-Commander’s office.

Anna had been a cleaner around the Circle. She looked like she had been murdered via drowning in one of the higher hallways, and the thought made Maxwell as sick as Marigold’s murder did.

Pailen had been another cleaner around the Circle. He had been murdered within Maxwell’s bedroom.

Cristina had been one of their lyrium enchanters. She had been murdered over her work.

Viria had been another of the Apprentices’ Quarters minders. She had been murdered just before Roland.

Sheryse had been a scribe. She had died on the docks.

Lalwyn had been one of their lyrium enchanters. She had been the one to start the fire on the docks and, consequently, died there.

Fihris had been another cleaner around the Circle. He had died on the docks.

Nelanna had been one of the stock room keepers. She had died on the docks.

Cyrven had been one of the cleaners around the Circle. He had died on the docks.

Most of their deaths were malicious or just _pointless_ , and that had made it so much worse.

Of the Harrowed Mages, Maxwell only knew of five that were dead, but that didn’t mean much. There were only twelve in total that were planning to escape with twenty-nine apprentices, minimum, though they hoped some of the adult apprentices would come with them.

In the end, only one did, despite ten surviving.

Senior Enchanter Lydia, his second mother and so understanding, until she didn’t understand anymore, likely killed by her apprentice on accident.

Albane and Laurent, the two that didn’t survive the five-mage team on the phylactery destroying mission.

Nicholas, who was murdered in the hallway, looking like he was running toward the Youngest Apprentices’ Quarters.

Xavier, who was murdered in the Knight-Captain’s office.

Those were just five he _knew of_.

Maxwell and Ava had _tried_ to convince the others to run with them, but they had turned their noses up at anything Maxwell was part of.

He was a traitor in their eyes, and he had refused to let Ava scream the truth at them.

It wouldn’t have helped.

“Inquisitor, you cannot carry the dead,” Cassandra said quietly.

Maxwell’s head snapped over to her and he glared at her intruding on this.

He hadn’t intruded on _her_ mourning, when she had pulled away to pray and set her names on fire.

_“This_ is none of your business,” Maxwell snapped and slowly stood up.

“This will only hurt you,” Cassandra argued.

“If I do not remember them, if I do not _carry them_ , then they will be forgotten. _And they deserve better,”_ Maxwell responded sharply and he walked past her, stiffening slightly when she reached for him.

He didn’t stop however, managed to shake off her arm, even though it burned, and went straight into the tent he shared with Bull.

He took off his boots, and his useless ankle brace, before he laid down, curling up into a tight ball.

A heaviness rested in his chest and his eyes burned as fire itched under his fingertips because how _dare_ she tell him how to mourn.

She didn’t understand who he mourned and how some were mourned twice over, and further still for the loss of potential.

The loss of life was horrific enough, for most of them had been murdered.

They were mourned over and over, for different pieces and next year, _next year_ , he would do better.

This year, he left three flowers made of Elfroot, frozen at the base of a tree.


End file.
